


Love Me Some Pie

by modulegirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, I like John Winchester, Weechesters, made my mom cry, not smut, tumblr inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1498327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modulegirl/pseuds/modulegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John leaves Dean and Sam to go on a job... and pie...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Me Some Pie

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this tumblr post:
> 
> http://jackiemakescomics.tumblr.com/post/43009047675/guns-n-freckles-baby-angel-of-the-garrison
> 
> It just would not let me be...

A simple salt and burn. That’s what Dad said as he shoved his notebook into his duffel, on top of the sawed off shotgun. 

“Don’t worry, Dean. Won’t take long.” Dad reached into his jeans, counted and then handed all the cash to Dean. “That’ll be enough to keep you and Sammy in food ’til I get back. I’ll have the office charge the room on the credit card daily in case I’m a day late.”

Dean looked at the money in his hand. Thirty seven dollars. He thought about how he would make the money stretch. Breakfast, lunch and dinner for three days, maybe four. He would plan on four. Dad’s idea of ‘won’t take long’ and Dean’s idea of ‘won’t take long’ were often two very different things.

Dad admonished him to be careful with the money and make sure Sammy ate something other than Lucky Charms. Then he got behind the wheel of the Impala and leaned out the open window.

“You know I depend on you, Dean. Your brother needs looking after.” Dad reached out and, smiling warmly, ruffled Dean’s too long hair. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, son.”

Dean stood at the door of the room and watched his dad stop at the office, pay for the room with a laugh for the clerk, and then drive away, headed northwest, toward Omaha.

Dean went back inside and closed the door behind him, locking it carefully. Sammy sat in a corner of the couch, not watching the television, looking instead at his older brother with tear-filled eyes.

“Where’s Dad?” Sam asked, his four-year-old voice clotted with snot from crying.

Dean sighed. “You know. He’s got a job.” Dean grew alarmed at the quiver of Sam’s lower lip and the surplus of tears threatening to spill out the corners of his eyes. “But, hey, Sammy, he’ll be back in a few days. Until then, we can do what we want. No Dad to tell us when to go to bed, what to eat.”

Sam perked up, tears all but forgotten. “Want Lucky Charms!”

“For breakfast, Sammy. Not lunch or dinner.”

“But you said!” Sam cried. “You said Dad couldn’t tell us what to do!”

Dean rubbed at the spot between his eyes the way he’d seen his Dad and Uncle Bobby do on more than one occasion. Sammy had a way of twisting words around you knew meant one thing and making them mean something else. Dean didn’t know how Sam did it, but it always made Dean feel like a dumb ass.

“Well, Dad didn’t say no Lucky Charms. I’m saying no Lucky Charms,” he lied.

There was no peace in the room until late that night. Sam threw a three alarm conniption fit, lying on his belly on the floor, kicking and screaming like someone was beating the kid to death. Dean did everything he could think of to get Sammy to shut up short of actually feeding him Lucky Charms for dinner. Sam would sure as hell say something when Dad got home and then Dean would get taken out back of the building and shown the business end of his father’s belt. All the excuses in the world were just that: excuses. When John Winchester said no, his eldest son understood what no meant. So he apologized through the door when one of the neighbors complained but refused to give in to Sam’s tantrum. About eleven, Sammy finally fell asleep without eating anything, which Dean was pretty sure was going to get him into just as much trouble as if he’d just fed the kid the damn Lucky Charms.

In the morning, before Sam woke up, Dean made a trip across the street to the Gas N Sip on the opposite corner with the thirty seven dollars John had given him plus eleven more that he had managed to horde over the past year. He felt like a rich man with all that money in his pocket until he started looking at the prices. And the selection. Dean remembered a dim, faraway time when he sat down at a table to eat every meal. When there was meat that didn’t come on a bun on his plate, with a vegetable and a salad. He remembered biscuits and muffins and rolls, fresh and fragrant out of the oven. Here he had a choice of canned beef stew and canned spaghetti. There were no fresh vegetables, no fruit, no salad. The only bread was white and tasted like a sponge.  Milk came in quart cartons and cost dearly. He couldn’t see a way to stretch one of those more than a day between himself and Sam. There were boxes of Lucky Charms, but they cost too.

Sheepishly, Dean made his way out of the Gas N Sip and stood on the corner, waiting for the light to change so he could cross and make his way back to the motel room where he hoped Sammy still slept. He thought he remembered seeing a real grocery store from the ride into town. He would have to drag Sam along because the little squirt would never consent to being left alone that long. And Dean had a feeling Dad would have a problem with that too. 

As luck would have it, Sammy slept until almost nine that morning, allowing Dean to straighten up the room, wash the dishes he’d dirtied heating supper last night, though he hadn’t eaten anything simply because Sammy hadn’t. It wasn’t the kid’s fault he cried like he did when Dad left them alone. Hell, Dean would have cried too if he hadn’t had his little brother to take care of. He had the feeling that eight was too young to take care of himself much less his baby brother too. But Dad trusted Dean enough to leave him in charge, and after the shtriga last fall, there wasn’t anything Dean was going to do to disappoint his father.

When Sam finally rolled out of bed, Dean had to get them both washed up and dressed. Sammy’s shoes were getting too small but he couldn’t walk all the way to the store barefoot, so Dean used his big boy knife - the one John had given him for Christmas last year even though Uncle Bobby said it was too big for an almost-eight-year-old, which had led to a big fight and Christmas dinner at Denny’s - and cut the toe away from the sole, which left a bit of a jagged edge, but at least Sam’s feet didn’t hurt just walking through the parking lot.

Sam stood quietly while Dean locked the door to the motel room and tucked the key into his left front pocket. He turned away from the door and touched the hard plastic tag through his jeans just to be sure he remembered where he had put the key. He feared losing it leaving the motel like this. Dad would not like a lost key, but he probably wouldn’t like Dean taking Sam out for a walk to the store either.

“But Dad could have bought some groceries before he left, couldn’t he,” Dean asked himself, just a little sullenly when he thought of how he might get in trouble for this. What else could he do?

Grabbing Sammy’s hand, Dean smiled at his brother, who smiled back a bit uncertainly as if Dean’s smile was not quite right.

“Let’s go exploring, huh, Sam?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded.

Dean had remembered correctly. Three blocks south, stood a Winn Dixie in the middle of a field of asphalt. By the time they got to the first row of concrete parking dividers, Dean was tired and Sam was worse. Dad had driven them down from Michigan in a matter of two days but forgotten that April in East Texas is an altogether different beast than April in Lansing. It was hot and neither of the boys had short sleeve t-shirts or shorts. Wool socks had served them well through the winter, traveling with Dad or staying with Uncle Bobbly in South Dakota. In Garland, they were stupid. 

“Dean, I’m thirsty,” Sammy complained. Dean nodded. They were both sweating, their long hair separating into curling spines that dripped sweat into their eyes, down their cheeks, under their shirts. He knew there would be a water fountain inside, but it would take time to find it and Sam might get impatient. 

Dean hated the idea of making a scene, alone, in public. Dad had told him once that if anyone ever thought that the boys were not being taken care of, someone would take them away from John and from each other. Dad had looked right into Dean’s huge, fearful eyes and said, “It’s your responsibility to take care of Sam. Always. If they take you away and split you boys up, then there won’t be anyone to take care of your brother, Dean. Sam needs you. I trust you.”

So Dean feared anytime he took Sam out. He didn’t know what would be enough attention to get two boys noticed and taken away from their father, but he always thought it was better to be so quiet that hardly anyone even realized they were there. Easy enough when Dad was home or Sam was well-fed and rested; not so easy when he had to take Sammy into a big grocery store where the kid could see all the food he didn’t get all the time.

Shit! Dean winced even thinking the bad word - one of the big two, though he didn’t actually know what the other one was because John never said it but had threatened dire consequences if Dean ever did - but it was the only one that suited his feelings. Maybe bringing Sam had been a bad idea. But he couldn’t leave the kid alone. And not just because Dad would get mad. Dean loved his brother and took his charge to watch out for him very seriously. Uncle Bobby said too seriously but never when Dad was around.

He hunkered down and tied Sam’s torn shoes a little tighter and hoisted his jeans a little higher, exposing more of Sam’s ankles in the process. He looked up at his brother, who looked down at him with an expression that always made Dean swell up with pride, because even though Sammy couldn’t say it, his little brother worshipped the ground Dean walked on. Very aware of that adoration and believing it entirely undeserved, Dean still struggled to be the big brother who deserved to have his little brother look at him like that.

“Sammy, I know you’re thirsty. Inside,” he nodded toward the haven of Winn Dixie across the parking lot, “there’ll be a water fountain with cold water, but we have to find it. It may take me a while, so you can’t cry if it takes too long, okay?” Sam nodded, very solemn, though Dean wasn’t sure the kid understood. He stood up and Sammy raised his head to follow him. “If you want to cry, squeeze my hand, Sam.” He took his brother’s little hand in his. “Squeeze real hard, but don’t cry.” Sam squeezed Dean’s hand but only a little and both boys started to laugh.

The wave of cold, air-conditioned air that hit Dean’s face when he and Sam crossed through the automatic doors of the grocery store made him gasp with pleasure. Both boys had shed their flannel shirts and tied them around their waists, but the necks of the the long-sleeved henleys they wore were ringed with sweat marks and Dean could feel his clinging to the small of his back. Pulling on his little brother’s hand, Dean made his way to the edge of the store and started looking for the fountain. Sam slowed him down, looking at the oranges and apples longingly, whining just once when they passed through the cold cases of the dairy section before clutching hard at Dean’s hand and looking ashamed at having forgotten what Dean had asked. Dean smiled at his brother, but he was thirsty too and it didn’t seem like they’d ever find the water. Until they did.

It was tucked back into the hallway at the back of the store where the restroom was. Someone was in the restroom, but he and Sammy just wanted the water. Dean picked up his brother and held him up to the fountain, telling him to push the button on the spout. Sam kept pushing and getting a little water but not enough because his fingers slid off the hard-to-push button. Dean couldn’t hold Sam and push the button so it was slow going until the lady in the bathroom came out and saw them both struggling, Sam to drink, Dean to hold his brother up high enough to get to the spout. She laughed gently and said, “Here, let me help.” She pushed the spout and the water shot up into Sam’s face but he didn’t care. He just drank and drank and drank. Finally, he was full and pulled away. The lady looked at Sam and then at Dean. “My goodness, you boys must be about to melt with those shirts on.” Sam nodded, smiling, but Dean said, “Thank you, ma’am.” She laughed again, bent and touched Sam’s chin with her fingertips. Then she looked at Dean. “You take good care of your brother, young man.” Dean nodded solemnly, which made the lady smile again though this time it seemed to be more sad than happy.

Once she had walked away, Dean drank his fill, inuring himself quickly to the bone-aching cold of the water against his teeth. When finished, he asked Sam if he had to pee and then again when Sam said no. Sometimes Sam still had a problem remembering that he needed to tell Dad or Dean that he needed to go, which generally resulted in Dean sleeping in a wet bed or Dad fuming because Sam had peed the backseat of the Impala again.

Dean walked out into the store and tried to get his bearings. Sam needed milk and Lucky Charms. That would make the kid perfectly happy until Dad got back but Dean knew they needed other stuff too. He got a loaf of wheat bread and peanut butter. He and Sam had a tussle about the flavor of jelly, but Dean gave in and got strawberry instead of grape. He looked longingly at the meat cases but knew he didn’t have the ability to prepare anything they contained. He got lunch meat instead - turkey and bologna. He got hot dogs and buns (he had to walk all the way back to the bread aisle to get those.) He found the smallest bottle of ketchup and a jar of mayonnaise. There were some oranges in a bag so he got those too. He left Sam in the freezer aisle to watch their stuff while he went and got a cart. By the time he got back, Sam had picked out four cartons of ice cream. After some convincing, Sammy put three back but kept out the box of Neapolitan since it had all his favorite flavors anyway. He decided on three cans of Spaghettio’s, which were much cheaper here than at Gas & Sip. That should get them through until Saturday, with a trip or maybe two to Gas & Sip for more milk.

By the time he’d decided on the Spaghettio’s, Sam was beginning to shift back and forth. Dumb kid couldn’t just say, “Dean, I gotta pee.” No, Dean had to figure it out and hustle him back to the bathroom, where they got there just in time, Sammy whining to hurry as Dean fumbled with the button of his jeans. Listening to Sam pee made Dean need to go, then Sam wanted to play with the soap dispenser and the faucet that pushed in and the water turned off after a few seconds and then with the spring-loaded paper towel dispenser. Dean tried to hurry him up, thinking about the food in the cart and whether someone would take it. 

Finally, Dean got the cart and his brother up to one of the check outs. He pushed the cart into the aisle that crossed behind the cashier and pulled Sam up to the cash register. He tried to look as grown up as he could, like he bought groceries like this all the time, like he was well taken care of and not living in a motel waiting for Dad to come home from killing a ghost a quarter of the way across the country. The cashier couldn’t have cared less. She snapped her gum as she pulled items out of the cart and slid them into the plastic bags that so many stores were using now instead of the brown paper ones. Dean knew they were easier to carry than paper bags but if they were too heavy they hurt his hands after a while.

When she was done, the cashier hit the button on her register and came up with a total of $27.18. Dean’s eyes got a little big. That was more than half his money, right there. He was hoping to be able to add to his stash, because John never asked for any of the money he gave Dean back. But even when Dad was late, he always came back in time, so Dean handed over his money and thought about how he could make sure Sammy got fed through Sunday afternoon which was the latest Dad had said he’d be. Then he’d be able to keep the money and still add to his stash.

Getting the three bags plus the oranges and the gallon of milk out the door was tough. Sammy proudly carried the oranges, his arms wrapped tight around the middle of the lumpy bag. Dean had the bags in one hand and the gallon of milk in the other. The bags were heavy, especially the cans of Spaghettio’s, but the milk was heavier than any one bag and sloshed as Dean walked, making it harder to hold on to. They got to the outer edge of the parking lot, the air-conditioned store almost forgotten behind them when Dean had to stop and put the bags and the jug down so he could rest. He looked at Sam, holding onto the oranges for dear life, and realized his brother hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, when Dad brought McDonald’s back to the room after he found out about the job in Nebraska. But the kid hadn’t complained about being hungry at all. He hadn’t whined or cried since he’d fallen asleep last night. And Dean thought he had way more to complain about right now than he had last night.

Well, if his little brother could hang onto that bag of oranges, Dean could certainly carry a couple bags and some milk without any problem. He smiled at his brother, picked up the groceries and headed back to the motel.

By the time they got back, Sam was struggling. He’d dropped the bag twice and each time picked it back up, but he’d also walked slower each time. Dean’s left hand pained him due to the seam of the plastic jug and the weight of the milk in his hand. But he’d had to stop thinking about his right hand, which had started hurting about a hundred yards into their long walk and had only gotten worse. The hand hurt but he’d also stopped feeling his fingers beyond the point where they curled past the bag handles. He hadn’t been able to move them for the last block. That kind of scared him.

When they got to the door of their room, Dean didn’t dare put his stuff down for fear of not being able to pick it up again. He had Sam drop the oranges, which broke the bag and sent a dozen oranges everywhere. It was the last straw for Sammy, who burst into tears even as he headed after the oranges as they rolled off the sidewalk and out under cars in the parking lot. Dean called him back, telling him it was okay, that he wasn’t mad about the oranges, but that Sammy had to open the motel room door. To do that he had to get to the key in Dean’s pocket, which took several minutes of fishing around because Dean couldn’t remember which pocket he’d put it in. Then Sam struggled with getting the key into the hole, which was higher than his head and only a little lower than his extended reach.

Finally, the door opened and the boys pushed into the room, which was sweltering because Dean had turned down the air conditioning earlier, when it wasn’t quite so hot. Three hours later, it was a lot hotter and the little window machine was not up to the task of keeping the whole room cool on low. Dean felt a lump in his throat at the thought of having to wait for the air to kick in when it was just so hot. He looked at Sam, whose hair lay in thick, wet curls against his head and whose lip quivered at the heat in the room.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, hauling the bags into the kitchenette and carefully unfolding his hands first from around the jug then with a hiss from the plastic bags. “Go outside and pick up those oranges.” Sam nodded, his lip still quivering. Dean turned around to look at his brother. “I’ll put this stuff away and we’ll take a cold bath, ‘kay?” 

Sam trotted outside while Dean opened his right hand, alarmed by the white creases in his fingers, surrounded by red swelling where the flesh had squeezed through the plastic. The feeling was coming back, which meant his hand wasn’t going to fall off, but he was pretty sure it was going to hurt for a while. And worse before it got better.

By the time Dean got the groceries put away, with the notable loss of the ice cream which had turned into a vaguely creamy, grayish soup, Sammy was done collecting the oranges. He’d had to crawl under a couple of cars to get to the wayward fruit so the back of his shirt sported a long smudge of grease and the knees of his jeans showed oil and dirt ground in real good. 

Well, Dean thought as he pulled them off Sam’s feet, they were too small anyway. “You’re growing like a weed, kid.” Dean stopped, eying Sam hard. “You be careful or you’re gonna be taller than me soon.” Sam puffed up with pride until they both dissolved into a fit of giggles at the thought that Sam could ever be bigger than his older brother.

They spent two hours in the tub. Dean got them clean, washing their hair and making sure that the grease stains that had seeped through Sam’s jeans had come off of his knees. Then he ran a cool tub of water and both boys got in, splashing and laughing and talking about the things that they had seen with Dad out on the road.

When their skin had gone past prune and all the way into water-logged, Dean got them out and into clean underwear and t-shirts. He decided they didn’t need to get dressed unless they were going outside because it was just too hot. Faced with the prospect of turning on the hot plate to heat Spaghettio’s or the effort of making a sandwich versus the ease of pouring a bowl of Lucky Charms and some cold milk, Dean decided it was worth the risk of punishment to have cold cereal for a late lunch or early dinner. They ate sitting in front of late afternoon cartoons, Dean nodding off even as he lifted the spoon to his mouth. Sam had slept well and late so he was ready to keep watching, so Dean warned him not to touch anything other than the TV and to wake Dean up if anything scared him. He crawled into the ugly plaid chair, threadbare and lumpy, curled up and went straight to sleep.

When he woke up, the room was dark, but the TV was still on with the sound down. He shivered in the dank cold coming from the air conditioner, then noticed the blanket half over his legs and pushed up to form a wall between himself and the edge of the chair, like Sam couldn’t get the blanket to cover him so he’d built Dean a fort instead. But he couldn’t see Sammy. He got up and padded around the chair, hoping to find his brother in bed. Sam lay curled up under the covers, head down, feet sticking out, snoring lightly. Dean crawled into the bed, though another sat untouched on the other side of the night table, pulled the covers up and went right to sleep.

They woke up the next morning to a long day of very little to do. Sam watched TV for a while but there were only four channels and once the soap operas came on one channel after another, there was only the noon news, which neither of them were interested in at all, to break the monotony until cartoons started back up in the late afternoon. Day three, Dean managed to keep his little brother occupied with toy soldiers and a lesson with the knife, how to hold it and where best to point it if attacked. Dean had only the vaguest ideas of what his father fought on a regular basis, but Sammy gave him that look again, the one that made Dean feel fifteen feet tall, so he mentioned a couple of the monsters that he’d overheard Dad and Uncle Bobby discussing over blended whiskey when they thought he was in bed. With some embellishment, Dean was able to keep Sam’s attention from wandering.

By the time, Sam woke up the fourth morning after Dad left, they were both getting a little stir-crazy. Sam wanted to go outside but Dean knew that going out was not an option. It was okay at Uncle Bobby’s house, but on the road, with Dad three states or more away, it was just asking for someone to realize that these two boys had no one watching out for them. Since Dean wouldn’t let him go out, Sam refused to take a bath that day. He also pestered his older brother for Lucky Charms at every meal and seemingly whenever he thought about it during the day. Dean came out of the bathroom that afternoon to find Sam sitting in the middle of the kitchen, hand halfway into the cereal box, marshmallow bits staining his lips and hands, cereal strewn across the floor. Dean took the box away with more force than necessary and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to keep Sam from bursting into tears.

When Dean woke up on Sunday, all he could think of was that this was the day when Dad would be back. He’d spent ten more dollars on milk at the Gas N Sip across the street. There were two oranges left and Dean planned for Sam to have those for a snack that morning and that afternoon if Dad didn’t get home by four or five. The lunchmeat was almost gone but there was enough bread for four more sandwiches or eight half-sandwiches if he was careful, which he already knew he would be. He’d have a pb&j and Sam would get the last of the bologna over lunch and dinner if necessary. That would leave half a box of Lucky Charms, two-thirds of a quart of milk, and a can of Spaghettio’s, plus fixings for half a dozen pb&js, which meant Dad wouldn’t even have to go shopping until late tomorrow morning.

Four came and went. Five crept up on them and six came even slower. Dean fed Sam and put him to bed at eight, telling him that Dad would be there when Sam woke up in the morning. Dean stayed up late into the night, sitting by the front window, phone on the table next to him, peering out from behind the blinds every time car lights flashed across the window. 

Dad didn’t call and Sam woke Dean up the next morning.

“Where’s Dad?” he asked, his lip trembling.

Dean shrugged off sleep and slid off the chair. He nodded to the phone. “Dad called and said he got another call for help,” he lied. “He’ll be home in a day or so. Maybe even earlier.”

Sam looked doubtful, but Dean hustled him into the bathroom and fed him. Then he risked it and took Sam outside for a few hours. They played in the field behind the motel until it just got too hot then went back in. Dean made Sam eat lunch but didn’t touch anything himself, telling Sam his stomach was upset, which wasn't that far from the truth. Sam watched cartoons but Dean couldn’t concentrate, wondering where Dad was and what he should do.

He wondered if calling Uncle Bobby would be okay. But, no, it wouldn’t. He and Dad had had a pretty big fight before Dad drove them to Texas. Dean didn’t think Dad would be happy with him at all if he called Uncle Bobby just because Dad was a little late getting home from a job. Dean was eight, for god’s sake. He had a big boy knife. He had his father’s trust. He didn’t need to call Uncle Bobby because he was afraid that Dad might not come home this time. That was just being a little kid. And Dean was not a little kid. Not anymore. Not with Sammy depending on him.

Dad’s just running late, Dean thought. He’ll be back tomorrow.

Two days later, Dean was desperate. He’d spent the half of the cash he had left on a solo run to Winn Dixie while Sam napped after a tantrum on Tuesday morning when Dad hadn’t been home again. To top it all off, Sam had refused to eat the pb&j Dean made for lunch the day before. He’d eaten it and the second sandwich Dean made for dinner, but Dean was fairly certain that Sam, who had a stubborn streak a mile wide, would continue to refuse to eat only once a day as long as Dad remained gone. Fairly certain it wouldn’t kill his brother, Dean still couldn’t bear to watch Sammy go all day without eating. So he bought three boxes of Lucky Charms intending to dole out the cereal slowly enough to ensure Sam ate three times a day. So Sam was eating fine, but Dad was no closer to being back.

Dean understood certain things about the hunter’s life. You went where you were called, you did what you had to do, and you didn’t look back once the job was done. But Dad always came back to his boys. He said they were the reason he kept on going. Dean had overheard Dad tell Bobby that without Dean and Sam, he would never have come out of the fire. The fact that they depended on him to be there kept him from using his sawed off on himself. Sometimes he was late and sometimes he was inattentive but he always came back.

So maybe he couldn’t come back. Which meant he might be dead. While Dean really only had a vague idea of what a salt and burn was, he knew that there were things his dad hunted that were much more dangerous than an angry ghost. There was always the chance that whatever John Winchester went after might be the thing that got him first. Dean had always believed his father infallible but sitting at the kitchenette table and counting what little money remained, Dean wondered if this might be the time Dad didn’t make it.

Three days late, with no word, and Dean decided to risk a call to Uncle Bobby. No matter how angry Dad might be it was worth the risk if Dean could just hear the gruff voice on the other end of the line. Bobby would know what to do. Bobby would tell Dean what to do and lift the burden. 

Dean picked up the phone on the nightstand between the beds, his eyes on Sam watching cartoons across the room. He dialed Bobby’s number by heart, then scrambled over the bed and into the bathroom while the phone rang in his ear. Carefully shutting the door behind him, Dean counted the rings, bouncing on his toes, willing Bobby to answer the phone. When he’d counted to twenty-five, Dean let the phone drop away from his ear. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against his arm lying along the edge of the vanity. He breathed carefully, in and out, trying his damnedest not to cry. He had a feeling if he started, he would not be able to stop.

He sat down, his back against the door and thought. Dad’s credit card paid for the room on a daily basis, so as long as he kept Sam fed and quiet, they should be able to stay at the motel with a minimum of risk. He’d keep trying to call Uncle Bobby, but in the meantime Dean needed to take care of Sam. Sam needed to eat and as hard to believe as it was his little brother was getting really tired of Lucky Charms. What Sam didn’t realize was that Dean wasn’t eating at every meal. He told his little brother that he’d eaten while Sam slept in or that he wasn’t hungry. But after skipping six of the last eight meals, Dean was very hungry.

Every day, twice a day, Dean tried to call Bobby. Friday, Saturday, and back around to Sunday, but Bobby never picked up. He didn’t think Bobby was still so angry at Dad that he wouldn’t pick up the phone for Dean but he wasn’t sure either. Bobby and Dad loved each other, but, boy, when they got angry, Dean hustled Sam upstairs or outside because more than once it had turned into a knock-down-drag-out fight.

Sunday evening, Dean had fed Sam the last of the Lucky Charms with just enough milk to wet the cereal a little. Sam had adapted fast to the situation. He hardly ever asked where Dad was and showed no interest in going outside in the heat. He sat on the couch and watched cartoons or looked at his books or napped. Dean hadn’t eaten anything since Saturday morning and had been fighting the first real headache of his life since Thursday evening not realizing that hunger and low blood sugar had brought it on. He did have a feeling that the bouts of lightheadedness that struck when he stood up or moved too quickly had to do with being hungry. He didn’t know what to do now. Dad would kill him if anything happened to Sam or if he failed to properly take care of his little brother. He knew he was in trouble for the Lucky Charms anyway.

That night, after putting Sammy to bed, Dean snuck out of the motel room, locking the door carefully and quietly. The sun was still up but hung low in the west, casting an orange glow over the squat motel buildings and the Gas N Sip across the street. 

Dean made his way across and stood outside on the other side of the ice machine where the clerk wouldn’t see him hanging around. He watched and waited for the right car and people to pull up. After nearly an hour, a ’79 Toyota pickup with rust stains on the wheel wells pulled in. Out stepped a man of around 40 or so who went into the store. Dean came around the front of the truck and slipped through the door, looking like he’d come in with his dad. While the man looked at beer in the back, Dean strolled into the candy aisle. He picked up a package of Oreos and looked at the clerk who was flirting with a girl seated on the counter. Dean slid the package into the front of his jeans and tucked his henley down. He grabbed a summer sausage and slid it down the inside of the left sleeve of his flannel shirt. A can of peaches followed. He made his way to the refrigerator and grabbed two small cartons of chocolate milk which made their was into his right sleeve.

At the end of the aisle closest to the clerk and the exit, Dean watched the boy whisper into the girl’s ear, causing her to give a high-pitched giggle that made Dean roll his eyes. While they laughed, he squared his shoulders and walked down the aisle closest to the window and out of sight of the cash register. When he got to the door, he pushed it open and yelled, “I’ll be out in the car, dad!” The clerk clearly thought the man looking for beer was his father and the beer man thought Dean belonged to someone else so neither paid much attention to him as he left and made his way around the front of the truck toward the passenger side and out of view of the store. Once in the clear, Dean set off at a quick walk back to the motel, unable to believe how easy it had been.

Suddenly, he heard his mother’s voice saying, “Angels are watching over you.” He remembered her telling him that. He was pretty sure he didn’t believe it, but he hadn’t been caught and maybe instead of an angel, Mom was looking out for him.

 

~spn~

 

John slid into the booth and grabbed the greasy menu form the condiments carousel. Sam and Dean slid in on the other side, hassling each other about some stupid shit that John mainly ignored.

The boys grabbed their own menus and started reading, poking and jostling one another.

“Boys.”

Dean stilled and dipped his head, picking up the menu and studying it. “Sorry, Dad.”

John felt the glare Sam gave him but chose to ignore it. After a moment, he huffed and hid behind the menu. John thanked Christ because he did not have it in him to have another blow out with his youngest. Damn kid was getting way too big for his britches, in more ways than one.

At seventeen, Sam had finally hit his growth spurt. And how. He’d shot up a foot in the last eighteen months. Keeping him fed was challenging - he was always hungry. And goddamn he could complain about road food. Dean always rolled his eyes when Sam went off on fat and cholesterol, salt and corn syrup. Kid tried to keep to a good diet, or as close as he could get in small town diners, but he was growing and needed something more than fucking rabbit food to build bone and muscle. He certainly didn’t have any trouble growing hair. John always grit his teeth when he looked at Sam’s tangled mess he called a ‘hair style.’ Goddamn hippie was what he looked like. Given his declared opposition to being a hunter, the hair suited him.

Dean, on the other hand, had finished growing at fifteen, which meant that for much of high school he was taller than almost all the students in his class. He ate anything set in front of him and never complained. Ate enough for him and Sam. Burned it off fighting monsters and ghosts. Good kid. Did as he was told, did it right the first time, didn’t talk back. As different from Sam as night from day.

The waitress came by and they ordered. John had the turkey club sandwich, Sam ordered the Cobb salad - with lite dressing - and Dean ordered the double decker cheeseburger with bacon, fries, a side salad, a chocolate malt and apple pie a la mode. 

Sam gave Dean his patented holier-than-thou look when the food came. “You’re going to kill yourself eating like that, Dean.”

Dean shrugged and picked up his burger. He bit into it with obvious relish, ketchup and grease smearing onto his cheeks. He held the burger up to Sam’s mock horrified gaze.

“Jealous, Sammy?”

“Don’t call me Sammy!”

Dean grinned around half-chewed burger and turned back to his meal.

“You eat like you haven’t eaten in a week, Dean. And you had a HUGE breakfast.” Sam shook his head and picked at his salad.

Dean just shrugged and kept on eating.

John put down his sandwich, thinking about what Sam had just said.

_John crossed into Garland doing eighty in a forty-five zone. He knew it was stupid; he risked getting stopped, which would only slow him down further. He was nine days late and Bobby hadn’t heard from Dean, but he’d been on a hunt for the last week._

_The salt and burn had gone fine, taken a little longer than he’d originally planned, but then he’d stirred up a nest of vampires who’d been occupying one of the mausoleums. Normally, John would have let them be until he could come back with reinforcements, but the vampires had forced his hand, tracking him back to his motel as he prepared to return to Texas and took him captive. It had not been pretty or fun. He had more than one goddamn vamp hickey on his neck and wrists and one on his thigh a little too close to little John for comfort. He’d been sure that bitch was going to bite it off. It was that thought that gave him the adrenalin rush necessary to finally break free and fight the bastards off. He’d killed every last one of the sons of bitches, knowing he couldn’t have them follow him home to the boys. When he came out of the mausoleum, he had been shocked to find that he’d been underground eight days. Blood loss and pain had played havoc with his sense of time._

_So twelve hours later he was back in Texas. Christ, he’d been in Texas nearly three hours. He’d tried calling the room but no one picked up. He’d left Dean with money but not nearly enough for two weeks’ food. Terrified of what he might find, John pulled into the motel and parked in the spot outside the room._

_He opened the door to Sam standing in front of the television in only a pair of underwear, finger in his mouth, eyes wide with fear until he recognized his father._

_“Dad!” he cried, rushing John’s legs and holding on for dear life. “You come home!”_

_John pulled Sammy away and knelt in front of his youngest. Besides needing a haircut and being nearly naked, he looked fine. “Where’s your brother, Sam?” John asked looking at the couch and over to the beds. “Where’s Dean?”_

_Sam frowned and said, “Dean don’t feel good. He’s in the bathroom.”_

_John stood and went to the bathroom door. He knocked gently. “Dean? Son?”_

_Faintly, he heard something stir and then, to his great relief, Dean’s voice. “Dad?”_

_John opened the door to a dark bathroom and Dean lying on the cool tiles with a wet towel folded under his neck and over his eyes. He lifted his arms to cover his eyes as he pulled the towel away to blink owlishly at John. “Dad?” he said again, disbelief breaking John’s heart._

_John sank to his knees and picked Dean up, holding him close to his chest. “Are you okay, Dean? What’s the matter?”_

_Dean clutched at his father’s shirt, his grip startlingly weak, and started to cry, huge racking sobs that sounded like he’d been holding in everything and could now let it go. “Dad, you came home! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Dad. I tried to take care of Sam but I’m so tired.”_

_John looked to Sam, standing in the doorway, lip trembling as he watched his brother cry. “Hey, Sammy,” John said, picking Dean up, realizing sickly that his son weighed less now than he had two weeks ago. Sam tore his gaze away from Dean and looked up at his father, eyes shining. “Sam, you feeling okay?”_

_Sam nodded. “Hungry.” He smiled brightly and said, “Dean brought home Oreos and chocolate milk. Said I could eat them all cause I was being so good.”_

_John closed his eyes and whispered, “Jesus,” as he laid Dean out on the bed the boys hadn’t been sleeping in._

_Dean heard either his brother or his father or both and clung to John. “I’m sorry, Dad. I know I gave him too many Lucky Charms and I stole Oreos last week. I’m sorry. I ran out of money, but Sammy had to eat. And I tried to call Bobby but he wouldn’t answer. I know you’re mad at him, but I didn’t know what to do. You didn’t come home, Dad, and I ran out of money, and I’m sorry I couldn’t take care of Sam. I’m so sorry, Dad.”_

_John listened, horrified by what he heard. He leaned over Dean and took his son’s face between his hands, holding him still and whispering, “It’s okay, Dean, look at me,” until the boy calmed down enough to look his father in the eyes._

_John looked at Sam, standing by the bed. “Sam, can you get dressed by yourself?”_

_Sam nodded and trotted off to the other bed where the boys’ duffles were stashed._

_“When did you eat last, Sam?”_

_“This morning. Tired of cookies, Dad. Want McDonald’s.”_

_John looked back to Dean. “When did you eat last?”_

_Dean wrinkled his brow and shook his head. “I don’t remember.”_

_Without taking his eyes off his eldest, John asked Sam, “When did you last see your brother eat, Sam.”_

_Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sam shrug. The kid was four, how the hell was he gonna answer that question?_

_“Sam, did Dean eat anything yesterday?”_

_Sam shook his head._

_“Did he bring anything else back besides the Oreos and milk?”_

_“Sausage and peaches,” Dean muttered._

_“Did you eat any of it?”_

_“I ate peaches, Dad. I ate peaches and Dean said I was good so I could have all the Oreos and milk but he wouldn’t give ‘em to me when I wanted ‘em. He made me wait.”_

_“I ate some of the peaches and we both ate the sausage, Dad, but I don’t remember when that was.” Dean had calmed down and was struggling to sit up._

_“I ‘member,” Sam said. “We was watching Scooby-Doo after news was over. It was morning,” he explained to John, somehow aware that information was helpful._

_“Three days.” John whispered. “At least.”_

_He scooped Dean up and held him close. “Jesus, Dean-o,” he muttered against Dean’s damp hair._

_Once Sam was dressed, John got Dean into jeans and a t-shirt, then carried him out of the room and tucked him into the back of the Impala and made Sam sit beside him, leaving the younger boy with strict orders to come get him if Dean stopped talking. He made a whirlwind pass through the room, picking up clothes and toys, cramming them into either of the boys’ duffels. He stood at the little table in front of the kitchenette and closed his eyes for a moment before clearing away the empty detritus of the last two weeks’ fiasco._

_A quick stop at the office to check out and John made his way to the nearest McDonald’s just as Sam had requested. Feeling sick himself despite the fact that he hadn’t eaten much the last nine days either, John ordered a Happy Meal for Sam and a small hamburger and fries for Dean. He sat beside his son and picked the burger apart in small pieces, feeding him slowly, making sure it stayed down. Once the boys had eaten, John packed them back into the car and got on I-45 down to Houston. Dean slept much of the way, waking only to drink the Dr Pepper John gave him halfway there._

_By the time they made it to Houston, Dean was awake and eager to eat when John asked. He picked Jack in the Box and ordered the Jumbo Jack Jr for Dean, allowing him to eat it himself but admonishing him several times to eat slowly and chew._

_Over the next few days, as they made their way across the Southeast, John made sure both boys were eating and that neither had suffered any serious physical harm._

_It was only several weeks later, after both boys had seemingly forgotten the entire incident that John realized the true effect._

_They had stopped at a little cafeteria in Florida where Dean loaded his tray with three plates, which he plowed through with gusto. Sam had a small plate John filled for him, more in keeping with his size, but since Garland John had begun allowing Dean to select his own food and always as much as he wanted. Dean never said he was hungry, never asked to eat, but every time they sat down, he ordered enough food for three kids and ate as much as humanly possible every time._

_Sam remained largely unaffected because Dean had shielded him from both the trauma of John’s failure to return and made sure his little brother never went hungry._

_Dean, however, had gone hungrier than John knew he could ever begin to imagine. Not just physically hungry, a hunger John feared might never be sated, Dean had starved himself for his brother and, despite the unchecked praise that John had given him for his behavior, still believed that he had failed to do enough to protect Sam. He could not believe that he had fully insulated Sam from lasting harm and in so doing inflicted it upon himself instead._

_Which was part of the reason why, when Dean lost food money in a pool game and got himself picked up when he was sixteen, John left him in that boys’ home for most of a semester. By then Dean had forgotten the incident that had left him with hunger that was never quite satisfied. But he would never forget the reason he’d gone hungry. He’d never forget that he needed to take care of his little brother._

John barely touched his turkey club, staring into space, reliving old memories until Dean finished the scraping up the last bit of pie filling with the remaining ice cream.

When Sam went to speak, to admonish again, John shook his head and looked at his youngest. Sam didn’t know the extent to which Dean had sacrificed that week or at any time after when Dean was in left in charge because John knew he could trust that his oldest boy would always put the needs of his youngest ahead, but it didn’t mean that John could let Sam get away with the derision on display right now.

“Sam,” John said, catching Sam’s eye and shaking his head.

Sam looked at his father and took in the look and for once accepted that he didn’t need to push his brother simply because he could.

John paid the check and met the boys out by the Impala. They were playing rock-paper-scissors for shotgun again and Dean was going to lose because the dumb kid always picked paper. Dean threw paper and Sam threw scissors. Both boys laughed and Dean opened the back door into the Impala.

John remembered that moment the night Sam left for Stanford, and again the night he took off, leaving Dean, knowing who he would seek out now that he was alone. He remembered it the night he looked at his oldest son, dying in a hospital bed because he couldn’t tell Sam do what needed to be done.

 

~spn~

 

On the evening of November 2, 1983, Dean Winchester ate the last piece of pie Mary Winchester ever made. Though he never realized it, that piece would be the pie against which he would measure every piece he ate for the rest of his life. They all fell short.

Some came damn close. There was a piece of apple pie in Yakima, Washington, that didn’t have the cloying corn syrupy sweetness so many of the fruit pies he ate were afflicted with. He ate a fine piece of pecan pie just outside of Dallas, with nuts that must have been picked up from the dusty ground beneath one of one of the trees outside the diner that very morning. A lemon meringue in South Carolina made his mouth sing with the tartness of the vivid, yellow curd and the pillow of ever-so-slightly sweet meringue. The best crust, a hearty, rustic, obviously homemade crust, the kind that actually tasted good and didn’t simply serve as a vehicle for delivery of the filling, came with an otherwise unassuming slice of chocolate silk pie with too much whipped cream topping.

Mary’s pie that night was pear. It was sweet enough for his four-year-old’s palate but not so sweet he was going to be bouncing off the walls until midnight. He had watched her make the crust two nights before, then watched again the next morning as she rolled out the cold dough, cut the pears, laid out the diced cubes of real butter, sprinkled brown sugar and spices that he would ever after smell and recall her face without understanding why. 

His father came home that night and they ate a third of the pie after supper. The next morning, Mary put a generous slice in John’s lunchbox and she and Dean shared a slice after lunch. Mary said Sam was too little to eat pie, but Dean snuck his baby brother a sticky piece of pear, and Sammy didn’t seem to have too much trouble gobbling it right up.

That fateful night, Mary’s last night on earth, she served John, she served herself, and then she scraped the pie plate clean onto Dean’s dish. He was a growing boy and he ate the entire piece, scraping his plate with his fork until John gave him a look that made him set his fork down carefully and politely.

Afterward, Dad never wanted to eat any of the pie the backroad diners served. Sam liked cookies better than pie, so he never asked. If the pie looked really good, and if Dean thought John had the extra money, which wasn’t often so it was rare Dean even bothered to ask, his father would buy a slice of whatever pie Dean wanted. He always ate every last crumb and enjoyed it with all his heart, but somewhere inside he knew if he ever came across a diner that actually served pear pie, he’d pick the apple instead.


End file.
